Host Parasite Host
by sad little tiger
Summary: Parasitism: a non-mutual relationship in which individuals of different species engage, wherein the invasive organism benefits at the expense of the unknowing host. AU.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I wrote this a long while ago and pulled it down after I began writing "The Serpent" with The Unholy Trio. It's my humiliating original work, my sad baby who isn't allowed to see the light of day - until tonight. What's really interesting about it though is how I can literally see where my style changed (for the better? maybe?). I'm almost embarrassed.

Whatever. We only live once and I haven't posted in ages.

Have at it.

* * *

"_Fuck…_"

All he could remember was the fight. The plane was out of control. Turbulence, lots of it. And they went down in the middle of an African storm.

He was on the ground now. All around him, the wreckage of Wesker's military jet lay, a mangled reminder of what had happened. A huge propeller was to his right, the blades inside stalled. A small fire was burning itself out in what was left of the torn-open cockpit. Chris let his head fall back to the ground and looked up. He winced and turned his face to the side then, eyes screwing shut. The sun was at high noon above the grasslands. Cicadas whirred and buzzed in the leaves of baobab trees, creating an eerie soundtrack for the midday savanna.

Chris's hands busied themselves with a protrusion in his right side. He felt around the piece of shrapnel, lodged deeply between his ribs. It was a scrap of riveted metal from the wall of the jet – nearly a foot in length, six inches across at its widest point, triangular. His fingers tested the edges of the sheet metal. Chris gasped and grunted. He tried to sit but found the pain to be too intense.

Instead, he held his gloved hands out in front of his face, squinting against the sun. Just as he had feared, they were covered in blood. He looked down the flank of his body. Blood was seeping out of the wound and staining the sand that he lay on. He laid his head back and closed his eyes. It was not looking good for him. He needed medical attention now.

"Sheva!" It took nearly all of his strength to call her name. He cried out and wheezed from the exertion. He imagined that his right lung may have been punctured, that it was filling with blood. His throat grew dry and tight. He was going to die out here, alone, in the middle of Africa.

"Sheva!" he yelled again. Briefly, his world went black and slowly came back into focus. The pain in his ribs was throbbing with every breath. He felt dizzy and nauseous. Sweat dripped steadily from his forehead down into his hairline. Little rivulets of clean skin showed on his face where tears had streamed through the soot and dirt. Flies were already congregating around him in a cloud, wanting the wound. He was afraid. More afraid than he'd been in a long time.

Chris breathed as deeply as possible and moved his legs, kicking them out, trying to push his body further from the wreckage. A weak moan escaped from him. He moved steadily onward this way – his back leaving a trail in the sand and grass, blood streaking the ground. Every few feet, he would stop and gasp for air.

* * *

Wesker watched with detachment. He stood noiselessly next to the dismembered propeller. The grassland air hung with the stench of jet fuel. Through that, Wesker could smell what he was seeing – the agony of Chris Redfield. The scent of blood both repulsed and aroused something in him. Here, outside of civilization, he could feel his dual nature with an intensity not normally known to him. He watched, unblinking eyes, as an oblivious Chris moved like a crushed bug, pushing his damaged body away. Wesker could hardly contain the smile that was tugging at the corners of his mouth.

* * *

Chris paused, sensing something wasn't right. He held what little breath he had and his hand went to the gun in the underarm holster. Suddenly, the sun was blocked. Chris ripped the gun from his side and aimed it at the figure above him. Through one squinted, tearing eye, he made out the shape of a man. They were wordless for a moment. Chris's breathing was labored and his body exhausted. Nevertheless, he continued to keep the weapon steady. Wesker crossed his arms and stared down smugly.

"Fuck. Off." Chris's voice rattled in his chest.

Wesker raised his eyebrows and nodded, smirking. He liked that there was still fight in Chris. It was… interesting. He glanced around. The shimmering air was heavy with humidity. Although he was unaffected by climate, he knew that the temperature was approaching 110 degrees. Off in the distance there was an endless horizon, broken up by small clusters of shade-giving trees. A flock of birds flew above.

"They'll be here soon, you piece of shit. They'll crash your little fucking party and you'll wish your mother would have swallowed you." Chris followed this up with a wet cough.

Wesker's attention returned to Chris and he coolly surveyed the wound. He knew just by looking that it probably wasn't life threatening, but it was far from his role to assuage Chris's feelings of impending doom. Quite the opposite. Wesker also knew that the scavengers would arrive soon. Vultures, lions, hyenas, wild dogs. They would all smell the fleshy delights that Chris had to offer. There was a plethora of ways to die in Africa and here was Chris: immobile, in a great deal of pain, stinking of blood. It was almost pitiable. Wesker thumbed his nose in thought. He looked as if he might speak but decided not to. He was suddenly gone from Chris's side. The sun blasted Chris's face again, threatening to blind him. Little black spots appeared in his peripheral vision and faded away.

Chris craned his head upside down to watch Wesker stalk off. The vision of the lanky blond through the oppressive heat was quaking and shaky. As he had always been, Wesker became nothing more than a mirage to Chris.

"What the fuck… Shit. _Shit_," was all Chris could muster as he lay panting in the dirt.

* * *

It was dusk when Chris heard the laugh of a hyena for the first time. He shivered and his shirt cracked with dried blood. The dying sun sank slowly and cast a red glow on the grasslands. He held his gun up in front of his face and checked the cartridge. 7 bullets. Chris dropped his arms to his chest, gun clutched protectively to his body, and he waited.

The clouds were painted hues of violet and pink by the last light of day. The air had a chill to it now. It was pleasant for the time being, but Chris knew that it would become dangerously cold soon. The sweat that soaked his shirt was already making his skin tingly and numb. If he persisted out here in this condition for another day, and the animals or the wound didn't kill him, hypothermia would. He wondered about Sheva. He was certain she was dead.

He was thirsty but his mind wouldn't let him feel the true extent of it. His body was still humming with adrenaline. The pain in his ribs was growing though. And he was still under the impression that he might be bleeding out from the inside.

The hyena's cries drew closer. It was answered by another dog off in the brush. Keeping the gun gripped tightly on his chest, Chris's lips moved in a silent prayer.

_"Our Father, who art in heaven…"_

A hyena appeared from the taller grass to Chris's right. It was a big animal – he hadn't realized exactly how big they really were.

_"Hallowed be thy name…"_

Chris could smell the hyena now. Drool hung from its open jowls and it whimpered with hunger. Dark beady eyes travelled down the length of Chris's body and an eager snout snorted the air.

"Thy kingdom come; Thy will be done…"

Chris aimed the gun. The hyena approached slowly in a zigzagged path. When it was within six feet of Chris, it growled. And Chris fired twice. The animal collapsed and whined as it died.

_"… on earth as it is in heaven."_

Another hyena broke from the brush line, and another behind it. Chris could barely see them from over his feet. He struggled to a half-sitting position, his weight resting on his left arm, bent at the elbow. Ignoring the searing pain in his side, he fired at them and missed. Fired again and missed. The dogs advanced and retreated like this several times until Chris was down to his last bullet.

He swallowed and bitterly reflected on his last day. The entire pack was closing in now.

"_Give us our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses…"_

One of the beasts darted at Chris from behind and nipped his neck, clipping the tender flesh with its fangs. Chris arched his back. He knew how this would go. First blood had been drawn. It was time.

Chris had been into fishing once, before Umbrella had consumed his existence. He'd gone out by himself to camp in Yellow Stone and had run into a wolf pack. They'd trapped a fawn in the thickets. Chris recalled how it had bleated miserably as the pack circled it and bit at its awkward spindly legs. A wolf finally managed to pull it down by the throat and the others immediately fell upon it.

They'd started eating the poor bastard before it was even dead.

Chris would not be the fawn. He leveled the gun at his temple.

"…_as we forgive those that trespass us…," _he whispered aloud.

Chris held his breath and squeezed his eyes shut.

There was a deafening silence around him. It was as if time had stopped. Even the bugs had stilled their cacophony in the trees.

Reluctantly, Chris half-opened his eyes, gun still aimed at his head.

The hyenas were fleeing in the distance - running off in every direction. Chris's muddled brain couldn't understand it.

Seeing his chance, Wesker gripped the barrel of Chris's gun from behind and wrenched it from his hand. In complete surprise, Chris let this happen and was pulled backwards from the force of the struggle.

Once again, Chris found himself looking up at the blonde, stunned.

"Suicide is such an undignified way to die, Chris."


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: There's some head-hopping in this chapter. I've left the story as-is though (from 2010), as far as editing. I feel kind of obligated to. Apologies!

* * *

"I'm really not even sure why I'm here," Chris said suddenly. He crossed his arms in front of himself. The leather couch squeaked beneath his legs.

"Well, Mister… Redfield, you indicated that you're having trouble coping with stressors and that you're questioning your orientation."

"I'm not questioning my orientation."

The psychologist glanced at Chris and then paged through the medical papers. He pulled out a specific sheet and read over it.

"You reported having feelings for an authority figure of the same sex. You also indicated that it's interfering with your marriage. And you're suffering from post traumatic stress – flashbacks, panic attacks, phantom pain."

Chris's lips pulled into a tight line. He said nothing.

The psychologist set the forms down. He folded his hands and looked at the man across the desk. Chris would not meet his gaze. "This will only work if you talk."

Chris ran his tongue over his teeth. He uncrossed his arms, hands in his short hair. He leaned back then, spreading out, subconsciously trying to take up as much space as possible, to take back some kind of power. He'd lost so much just by coming here. _Goddamn Jill…_ "I don't know – I'm not sure…"

"Start at the beginning."

The beginning. Chris looked overwhelmed. The psychologist knew that if he wanted to see that $75 co-pay again, he'd better backtrack. Patients opened up at different times.

"What does that mean?" the psychologist asked, gesturing, deflecting.

Chris stared at the tattoo on the inside of his forearm. A thin green snake circling in on itself, fangs extended. Endless. Beginningless.

"This is confidential, right? No matter what?" Chris asked quietly.

"Yes. Of course."

The men regarded each other.

"This is Uroboros. His name is Albert Wesker."

* * *

The psychologist knew Chris _was _in a covert militia group. How deep the group went or even what they did was a mystery. Whatever it was, it was important and probably terrifying. Nevertheless, Chris's story was already a difficult one to believe. He took down notes about possible causes for delusions of grandeur.

"So this Albert Wesker survived the crash as well?"

The doctor scribbled loudly.

"He survives everything." Chris was deathly serious, eyes down cast. His voice sounded distant. He was someplace else.

The psychologist pressed for clarification, an effort to bring his client back to the session. "He wasn't hurt in the crash?"

"No. He's never 'hurt' really. Not like you or me. He's… not human?" Chris asked, reaching for the words.

"What do you mean by 'not human'?"

Chris paused, collecting his thoughts. He imagined telling the shrink about the time Wesker had been impaled by a monster and then come back to life - changed, _deified_. That was too much though.

"I dunno," Chris said after a few beats. "It is what it is. He lived, right? And he wouldn't let me die."

* * *

The wound gaped. Chris stared at it. When he breathed just so he could see _inside_ of himself. His bloodied fingers touched the ragged edges of the puncture, testing it. He hissed at the pain.

"Stop doing that."

Chris sighed and leaned back against the trunk of the tree. He'd passed out like that, slumped over, when Wesker had pulled the metal from his side. The bark scraped his bare back and he shifted in discomfort. The blond sat a dozen feet away now, staring off into the grassland. Branches swayed above them both, the ground dappled with light and shadow. The mid-morning sun had already brought the temperature to nearly 90 degrees and although the shade of the tree kept them from most of the blinding rays, the mounting heat was causing the younger man to sweat profusely. The wound burned and wept some.

As if on cue, Wesker turned so that Chris could see his aristocratic profile and said, "You should drink."

The canteen lay on the ground next to Chris. Unopened.

"You're dehydrated."

Chris didn't respond.

Wesker turned completely then, facing him. Chris said nothing, did nothing. He refused to make eye contact with the mutant. He would _absolutely not_ give the monster that power. Instead, he seemed to stare through Wesker.

"You will drink the water, Chris," he directed. It was no longer a request. Chris's left eyebrow twitched a little at the Wesker's voice. But that was the only reaction he'd allow. He continued to stare blankly.

Wesker stood then. His shadow loomed behind him. He marched toward Chris and it took every ounce of mental strength left in the injured soldier not to flinch. His eyes narrowed and secretly followed Wesker's legs as he angrily grabbed the canteen and shook it next to Chris's face. The water swished around inside. Chris only blinked at this and continued to gaze at the horizon. He ground his teeth. He was very thirsty… but he would be damned if he accepted Wesker's help.

"Drink," Wesker ordered as he thrust the metal container at the younger man.

Chris was motionless and the air around them seemed to hang. The breeze that had provided some relief was slowing now, stopping almost completely. Flies buzzed lazily near Chris, attracted to the wound. He did not bother to bat them away.

Wesker was confused and exasperated. "This is not the time to play games, Chris," his voice dropped an octave. A warning.

The stalemate continued though, despite Wesker's demands.

Until Wesker unscrewed the cap and grabbed a handful of Chris's hair, yanking his head back. The younger man yelped in surprise and seeing his way in, Wesker jammed the neck of the canteen into Redfield's open mouth. The metal clanged against the younger man's teeth, probably chipping a few, and the warm water choked him. He struggled then and grasped at the blond's wrist, trying to push the container away, trying to stop the gagging. Chris coughed and the let the water come back up, spitting it out. It dribbled down his chin and throat, pooling in crevice of his collar bone.

"Drink, Goddamn you!"

After trying unsuccessfully to force half of the contents of the canteen down Chris's throat, he relented, breathing heavily and eyes glowing with anger. He wanted to bash the idiot's skull in with the damn thing. Chris finally looked up and into the other man's face. Wesker searched Chris's steely blue eyes for a response, a glare, _anything_. Instead, he found a gaze as unreadable as his own. _Empty._ They were both made of stone.

Chris was still clearing his throat, going into short fits of coughing, but continued to stare into the eyes of the man who had ruined his life. Wesker was trying to calm himself, remind the animal part of him that Chris was useful alive, he needed to live, even though he would have loved to tear the arrogant mortal limb from limb. The grumbling monster inside of him settled.

Keeping Chris's eyes, he set the canteen on the ground, within the other man's reach.

"I am going to leave this here. It would be in your best interest to drink, Chris," he said finally, his voice low and controlled. It nearly killed him to have to address Chris this way. He wanted to break his neck, twist his insignificant head off for his disobedience. But he did not. And not even he was sure why.

Chris was silent and looked peaceful. His breathing had returned to normal and his shoulders relaxed. Wesker backed away, his external composure was regained but he was somewhat unnerved by the entire exchange and Chris's strange demeanor.

When he felt that Wesker had given up enough ground, he picked up the canteen and brought it to his cracked lips, his gaze still on the tall blond – unwavering and impenetrable. He drank deeply then and set the canteen down.

Wesker inwardly cursed himself. He'd inadvertently let Redfield set the tone. His fury had gotten the better of him and Chris's chilly composure had shown him up.

He knew then he would regret all of this.

* * *

The psychologist's phone rang. He held up a finger to Chris, asking him to pause.

"Yes? No. Reschedule. I know he waited for… Listen, just tell him to reschedule. Tuesdays are good. Yes. Thanks."

Chris waited patiently but his knee bounced out of nervousness.

The psychologist hung up the phone and directed his attention back to Chris.

"Our time is up, right?"

"No. No. Today, I'll make an exception. Let's keep going."

Chris nodded. The room was quiet and both men could hear the ticking of the wall clock.

"So the two of you engaged in a power struggle. Would you say that this characterized your relationship?"

Chris looked down in thought. Finally, he replied, "There's no way to characterize that relationship."


	3. Chapter 3

Midday.

Wesker wet the bloodied green shirt with what was left in the canteen.

"You should put this over the wound. The thought of digging maggots out of you repulses me."

Chris plastered the wet cloth to his side without so much as a thank you.

The flies continued to buzz but had nowhere to eat.

* * *

Afternoon.

"Is she dead?" Chris spoke. Wesker listened, tilting his head. The voice sounded hoarse, disconnected. It was strange after the hours of silence.

His back was to the soldier. "Yes."

Chris didn't ask any more questions.

"Part of her is in the branches of that thorn tree. Her torso, I believe."

He motioned with a nod of his head to a tree in the distance, near the crash site. Foliage was few and far between here.

Chris's feet moved in the sand. Wesker picked up a pebble and tossed it lazily.

"What was her name? _Sheba?_"

"Sheva." Chris was quick to correct him.

Wesker tossed another pebble and smiled.

"Ah, yes. Sheva of the Whistling Tree." A smile was in his voice.

For the rest of the day, cicadas spoke for them.

* * *

Dusk.

Wesker returned. He shook the canteen and grinned at Chris.

"Water. There's a river there, to the northwest. The Rufiji, I think."

Chris didn't care. It could have been the Mississippi.

Wesker pulled clumps of dry red grass. He shook the dirt out and piled them. He wore no gloves. Thin pale fingers working.

Next, he hunted for and picked up two rocks. Good sized and grey.

Over and over he pounded the rocks together. Nothing.

Chris watched silently. _Let the tyrant have a go_.

The blonde grew frustrated. Chris could see the change in his face. There were wrinkles where there used to be none. The pale skin looked fragile and thin under the African light.

Wesker threw one rock, grunting. He threw it farther than any man could have thrown it. They watched it sail and hit the ground far away.

He turned then, hands resting on his hips.

Chris dug in one of the pockets of the cargo pants. He produced a lighter, flung it to Wesker's feet. Kept one hand on his rib cage and breathed deeply.

Wesker's nostrils flared. "Prometheus Redfield."

* * *

Night.

Chris lay on his left side. The fire leapt, sparking.

"What are you going to do now?"

Wesker had his arms around his knees, legs pulled up, feet crossed at the ankles. The leather pants glistened. His eyes were the color of the blaze.

He didn't know. So he did not speak.

"Will you kill me in my sleep?"

Wesker looked up, his eyes the only feature that moved. Chris knew the answer.

Letting his head drop to his arm, Chris drifted. He felt the push and pull of a phantom ocean on his body.

"I'm dying, Wesker."

From across the fire, the blonde smiled. "No, Chris. Unfortunately you are not."

And Chris slept.

* * *

"It sounds like schizoaffective disorder to me." The screech of fork meeting plate at a nearby table made both psychologists cringe.

"I don't know though. He's pretty convincing."

The other smirked. "I bet he is."

The first was thoughtful as he sipped his water.

"You aren't seriously considering what this guy says." Eyebrow cocked, food halfway to mouth.

"It's not… You have to hear him. There's no alogia. No manic states. _Or_ depressive states really. And I wouldn't say he displays affective flattening. It's just -"

"Come on, Bill. He's talking about Africa and a man who looks like Dolph Lundgren and "special powers" and saving the world. He suddenly hates everyone close to him – classic sign, by the way. Psychosis without mood symptoms, right? He's paranoid too, you said that yourself." He pointed with the knife in his right hand. "It's textbook. Case closed." He took a bite of chicken. "Refer him to Ron. A course of Resperidone will fix him right up."

"I don't think drugging him is the answer."

The other man laughed. "I'm sorry, Bill. What profession did you go into again?"

* * *

"You look exhausted," the doctor observed as Chris sat heavily on the couch.

"I am." He rubbed his eyes. "The baby cries all night. Only stops when Jill holds her."

"You don't like to hold the baby?"

"No. No. It's not that. She won't let me."

"Who? Your wife?"

"No. _The baby_. She's fussy. Doesn't like me," Chris said as though everyone knew, waving his hand, dismissing.

The doctor found it odd that Chris repeatedly referred to his only child as "the baby".

He wrote the words _disassociation _and _projection_ down on the pad in front of him.

"What's her name?"

"Eve."

"And you think Eve doesn't like you?"

"I _know_ she doesn't," Chris replied curtly.

The doctor felt compelled to stop that conversation. The room was already hostile.

"Tell me about Jill."

Chris nodded. "What about her?"

"Anything."

"She's… a terrible cook." He smiled. "She's strong though. And brave. Braver than me. Good with a gun. Pretty."

"How is she brave?"

Chris's eyebrows knitted together, almost defensively. "She would give her life for me. Didn't… wouldn't think twice."

The pen turned over in the doctor's hands.

"But you would do the same, Chris. It's who you are."

The veteran's brow was still furrowed, eyes narrowed and hawk-like.

"Would I?" he asked after a loaded pause.

* * *

Morning.

Wesker wrinkled his nose as he lifted the dried shirt. Chris did not wake.

It was the smell that drew him in. He grimaced. Reflex. Human.

The area surrounding was an angry pink, disturbingly hot to the touch, swollen. Red streaks radiated out over his side. The edges of the wound were dry and tight, hardened. The interior of the gash looked wet. The scent was putrid, disarming.

_Infection._

Wesker poured water over wound from the canteen, flushing it. He pushed at the aching skin, to encourage draining. Bits of dirt swept away. The used water was opaque, clearing out the beginnings of pus. Repeat. Repeat. Until the canteen was empty.

Carefully, he replaced the shirt that had dried in the shape of a rib cage.

Chris was staring at him through half-closed eyes.

They didn't speak. As their words could fork no lightening.

Wesker stood, canteen in hand. He walked off and the sun rose behind him. Birds sang.

* * *

Midday.

The heat was unbearable.

Wesker sat in the sun. Chris lay slumped over under the tree. Wesker faced him, waiting.

A herd of elephants ambled past. The bull lifted his head when he was downwind of Chris. Ears opened up in alarm. Clouds of dust billowed out around the legs, wrinkled and ancient as redwoods.

They could not smell the other man, though they could see him. He was devoid of scent.

They would remember to keep clear of the strange animal in black.

* * *

Afternoon.

Wesker had a bag. Inside was his sustenance. The only thing he'd bothered to salvage.

The needle stung when it went in. Stung more when it came out. He clenched and unclenched his fist.

Chris drank warm water. And watched.

He grew weaker.

Vultures overhead.

Black arrows that caught and sang the sun in flight.

* * *

Evening.

It was a bad fever.

He shuddered, teeth rattling.

Wesker washed the wound. Patient.

In and out of blackness.

* * *

Night.

Secret prayers of death.

A cold wrist on his forehead. Cold, hard fingertips pressed to his throat. Fast pulse. Shallow breath. The click of a disappointed tongue.

"You must fight, Chris."

_Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray_.

Eyes illuminated by the fire. Four pairs. Silent paws. Tails moving against the ground.

Wesker was a shadow, a blur. Fury incarnate. He was so unreal that the grass did not know to wave in his wake.

There was a strangled cry. The snap of bones.

Chris threw up where he lay. Only water. It burned his throat. He rolled onto his back.

He opened his eyes at the thud next to him. A body dropped. Warm, dying breath fanned over the skin of his neck. He turned to look.

Wesker sat gracefully and folded his hands in his lap. Closer than before.

Predatory.

The lion Wesker brought blinked once. Twice. And then stilled. Life extinguished.

Chris reached out and touched its face. He tugged on the whiskers and ran a dirty thumb down the fang. He traced the scars on its muzzle. The fur was hard, like a brush. Like Jill's hair brush, the one she'd left at his apartment once upon a time. He'd hated that gesture then. He loved the memory now.

His hand dropped, exhausted. The wound throbbed and was in his feverish dreams as he slept.

"Do not go gently, Chris. _Rage_."


	4. Chapter 4

It had been a while since he'd seen her, though she only lived twenty minutes away. He reached back into his memory, which was thankfully poor. Yeah. It had been about two and a half months. The night before Wesker and the girl. He twitched and shook his head as if to clear it.

His life was split into two periods of time – Before Wesker (BW) and After Wesker (AW). Every major event was marked on that scale, committed to brain matter based on and in reference to various interactions he had with Wesker. It was the only way he could recall anything. If it wasn't so fucked up, Chris might have laughed at himself.

Jill eyed him. He wasn't wearing a shirt. He looked gaunt. A large gauze pad was taped to his side.

"Still healing?" she asked casually, trying to cover the concern in her voice. "It's been a long time. Maybe you should get a second opinion or something."

The truth was that he hadn't been to any doctor since returning from Africa. He'd pulled the staples out himself. The wound would close and re-open randomly but for the most part he could keep it free of infection. It was alive. And it reminded him every single day of how it felt. Today, it was angry. It split while he showered and tortured him when he breathed. He could barely remember a time before the wound. Oddly enough, he didn't really want to.

Chris looked at her and then away. It was a shameful movement. She didn't press. Instead, she stared at the floor and tucked the hair that had fallen out of her ponytail behind her ear.

She'd dyed it back to chestnut. Left it shoulder-length. It looked good. He wanted to tell her so but found he couldn't. Things were different.

"Beer?"

She held up a delicate hand. "Nah."

He flipped the cap off of the bottle with the edge of a spoon. It landed with a _ching_ in the sink that had become a graveyard for dirty dishes. Jill noticed the way he'd let it all go, but said nothing.

"Lanai?"

She nodded and followed him out the sliding glass door.

It was a balmy evening right outside of D.C. Mid-June. Chris could hear the city traffic in the distance. His apartment was on the third floor and overlooked a little lake. The water was unnaturally blue – chemically so. But it was nice there. The government had treated him alright, as far as early retirement.

Awards, honors, and money. A practically endless stream of all of those things. But it was secret, dirty. Nothing he could share. Bioterrorism was high-level clearance. Privileged clearance. He just went limping into hiding with all of his clandestine medals. They collected dust now. How strange. He was the savior of the human race but no one was allowed to know. He imagined Wesker probably felt the same way after Raccoon City had been wiped off the map, destroying everything he viewed as progress, erasing any evidence of him. He had wanted glory too. Glory of a different nature, but glory nonetheless. Thrown under the bus. Both of them.

_Two sides, same coin, _the wound told him. In Wesker's voice.

They sat on the porch swing, Jill with one leg pulled up, the other dangling over the edge. She was angled towards him. He could feel her stare. She wanted to say something. She was making him nervous. He debated asking her to leave. He was so impatient lately, so annoyed. He just wanted to be alone.

She sighed.

"I'm pregnant, Chris. We're pregnant."

He doubled over slowly and let his head hang between his knees. They stopped swinging. Her hand carefully touched his bare back. She felt his heart racing, thundering against his ribs. It was a wild animal, caged.

"I'm sorry I didn't say anything sooner. I didn't know I could get… after the virus, I mean. I wasn't sure if it would last. And when we were together, in April, you hurt me, you broke my heart. I didn't know what to say. I still don't know what to say." The words tumbled out - clumsy, unrehearsed. Honest.

He buried his hands in his hair and scratched roughly, his scalp moving.

"I'm keeping the baby." There was pain in that, a covert plea. It was so very sad for her to even have to say these things to _him_. "This might be my only chance."

He reflected. The Old Chris would have pulled her into his arms, kissed her, loved her. The Old Chris would have been happy, would have wanted this. The Old Chris would do the _right_ thing.

"If you don't want a part of this, that's okay. It's okay. It's alright." She repeated it for her own sake, not Chris's.

He clasped his hands together and finally met her gaze, sideways. His eyes were hard and clear. Not at all what they used to be. She was afraid of what they saw now.

"Say something," she whispered as a tear fell down her cheek.

"We'll get married. We'll do the right thing, Jill."

_And we _**_always _**_do the right thing, Chris, _the wound agreed as it bled through the gauze.

* * *

A year after that evening, Chris was in the psychologist's office. It was his third visit.

"And your wife doesn't know about Wesker."

"She thinks he's dead." The knee bounced. Couch squeaking.

"Why haven't you told her?"

"Because they have a past too. It'll just make it all worse. Trust me." Frustration rising.

The psychologist wrote: _Will not disclose delusions to spouse. Spouse to sit in next week? Jillian Valentine-Redfield. Call cell – not home._

"I think telling her that Wesker is alive would relieve some of the pressure," he said as he finished the note. "Perhaps she could attend with you next week. We could tell her together." He'd try and break the ice now. If the reaction was violent, he'd drop it. For a few sessions at least.

Chris looked alarmed. His mouth hung open.

"You don't have to tell her _all_ of it, Chris." He knew what the doctor meant by that statement. It enraged him.

"That is _never_ going to happen," he spit out, pointing forcefully. He was glaring now and looked as if he might stand. "_Never_."

Reaction: violent.

The doctor held his hands up, relenting. "That's fine, Chris – I just wondered. I'm sure you'd tell her if you felt it was imperative."

Chris relaxed into the couch. Hand at his mouth.

"But I don't condone secrets of this nature in a marriage. You ought to think about it."

"Oh, I think about it. I think about it every day." He chewed a nail down to the quick.

* * *

Midday.

Someone was pulling his eyelid up. He batted the hand away and tried to sit. The pain in his side put a stop to that thought immediately.

"There _he_ is," Wesker taunted. He could tell by the way Chris was moving that the worst was over. The fever had broken that morning after two days of delirium and unconsciousness. Chris _had _raged.

"Water," Chris hissed, his voice nearly non-existent. Wesker obliged.

* * *

Afternoon

"I want to sit up," Chris demanded. He was still prone on his back.

"I want a lot of things," Wesker replied, bored.

Chris was able to raise his head and glare.

When he was damn well and ready, Wesker propped him against the tree. And none too gently. Chris wheezed and keened lowly, his hand holding the wound.

"Jesus Christ… _Fucker_." His heel ground out and kicked dirt at Wesker.

* * *

An hour later.

"Where the hell are we?"

"Selous. The Serengeti. Game reserve."

"How long was I out?"

"Two days."

Chris's stomach growled. He'd gone without food for a long time.

Wesker turned to look at him disdainfully.

"Could you be any more human?" he sneered. He stood and stalked off.

* * *

Evening.

Wesker tossed the carcass at Chris. It was a smallish deer. The neck was disproportionately long. And broken.

"Gerenuk," Wesker told him, starting the fire. "Quite clever. Very darty."

"How did you…" Chris studied the dead eyes.

"Just eat it."

* * *

Night.

Wesker watched him over the flames, removed. Chris struggled with the switchblade. It was the only knife they had. He'd managed to empty the animal of its innards (which burned in the fire) and was focused on separating the hide from the muscle. He sliced and yanked.

Wesker heard it tear. He frowned. Not that Chris noticed or cared.

Chris's resolve was weakening quickly. He was tired. And starving. His hands dropped and his shoulders sagged. He rubbed his face with the back of his wrist, getting blood under his eye. Accidental war paint. He sighed.

Chris jumped and then winced when Wesker appeared, standing close.

"Give it to me."

* * *

Chris gnawed on the femur. The flesh was gamey and burned. He didn't like it. But it worked.

"Do you eat?" he asked.

Wesker stared at him. "No."

"You just shoot up."

Wesker looked terribly bored with the direction of the conversation but could not resist a chance to talk about himself. "I never was much of a carnivore, as a human. Eating dead bodies is… distasteful."

Chris snorted. "Right. Killing six billion people - okay. Eating an animal - not okay. Got it."

Wesker smiled.

Chris looked up, something dawning on him. "Was there a lion? Do I remember a lion?"

"Yes."

He waited for Wesker to elaborate, but he did not.

"Where is it?"

"With half of Sheva. Maybe their rotting corpses will keep the lot of African predators from noticing your stink."

They fell silent. In the distance, a wild dog yelped.

"She was a good woman," Chris said mournfully, his eyes on the fire.

Wesker watched him. And nodded.

* * *

Jill was all belly. And she glowed more than any expectant mother Chris had ever seen. It was such a shame she was married to _him_ and not someone who loved her.

Chris didn't love anyone these days.

_Could he love the baby when she came?_

He thought about that as he watched the roller meet the wall, color speckling his arm, face. Slow, hard strokes. Bands of paint up. Bands of paint down.

Pink. For daddy's little girl.


	5. Chapter 5

They went to a new-agey birth center and Jill had the baby in a Jacuzzi. He held her hands when she delivered. She knelt in the pool of water, stained and swirling with her blood, wearing only a sports bra. She wept and moaned and trembled and cursed. He had no idea why she ever wanted to do it this way. No Epidural, no monitors, no hospital. Something about what had been done to her maybe?

She groaned with the next contraction. The Old Chris took over, combing her hair back and wiping her face and murmuring in her ear little reassuring things.

The New Chris listened to Jill's struggle and was reminded of the girl he and Wesker had... been with.

"_You'll be fine, just let him finish…"_. He recalled his own voice saying.

And then he thought of Wesker. Alone.

"_Only I know what you need…"._ Wesker had told him, mouth at his throat.

Jill howled with effort.

The New Chris grew painfully hard against his thigh while The Old Chris held their birthing wife.

* * *

The labor was nine hours and twenty-three minutes. Chris knew because he'd been watching the clock. He was exhausted that day. The wound, though closed for many months, had bothered him the night before. It demanded attention.

Despite all that, everyone came and saw Eve Redfield. They talked in strange voices over her face – in that tone reserved for babies. Chris never understood all of that and still didn't. They were able to hold her though, and _that _bothered him.

When Chris cradled her, she screamed. And it was not the crying of a colicky infant, or the whine of a hungry one, but the screaming of a baby in pain.

Everyone stared.

It was as if the baby knew what he'd done. And she hated him as he hated himself.

* * *

Their new house was dark, except for the den. Jill sat at the office desk, checking her e-mail, the baby on the floor in a bouncer. She used her socked feet to keep it moving. The computer cast a blue glow on Jill's face.

The time at the bottom of her screen was _2:27 AM_. Headlights shown on the wall and then disappeared as the engine cut. Well, at least he was punctual. Always 2:30. Always.

The front door clicked open softly, guiltily. Jill peered around the corner.

"Chris, we need to talk. You can't keep doing this."

He said nothing as he pulled his jacket off, one arm at a time, letting it fall to the floor. He walked towards her, coming out of the shadows. Jill stared at him. He leaned over and kissed her forehead.

_Yes. Shut her up_, the wound-scar encouraged him, borrowing Wesker's voice.

She looked at him, his heavy hand on her shoulder, his eyes unfixed. Tired.

"If it's me… if I've done something – you would tell me, right?"

_Pathetic. She's pathetic. Weak, weak, weak!_ the wound yelled. It was a parasite in his mind. He shook his head, hand going to his temple.

The baby began to cry loudly. Turning away, Jill reached down to calm her. When she straightened, Chris was gone.

Upstairs, the bedroom door shut.

* * *

The next day, she told him to get help or leave.

So he got help.

* * *

Morning.

Wesker looked pretty rough before he took the virus. Especially if he skipped a day. He was trying to conserve. Resources were severely limited.

In the early light, Chris could practically see through the blonde's skin. It was stretched tightly over his bones and was marked beneath by a highway of blue veins. There was bruising too. Nasty, dark contusions that appeared for no discernible reason.

Wesker tapped the crook of his arm, looking for somewhere to put it. The open bag next to him held only three vials. Chris took a swig of water and swished it around his mouth. He spit it out.

"What happens when your wings fall off, Icarus?"

Wesker glanced at him and the needle slid in.

"Why, no one will be around to stop the vultures from eating your liver, Prometheus."

Their eyes met as he pushed the plunger of the syringe down. Chris nodded.

_Touché_.

* * *

Midday.

"Can you walk?"

Chris looked up, glaring. "Motherfucker, does it look like I can walk?"

Wesker stared down at him, his hands on his hips. Chris watched him fight a smile. His lips twitched and his jaw clenched. The smile won. Sharp white teeth. _All the better to eat you with_, crossed Chris's mind.

Wesker had a dimple on the left side of his face when he smiled. For some reason, this infuriated Chris.

"Do you think I fucking lay here because I like it? Don't you think I would walk the fuck out of here myself if I could?" His voice was strained and angry.

Wesker started laughing. He resisted at first, but it was futile. Eventually, chuckling gave way to peels of it. The dimple was charming.

Chris threw a handful of dirt at him and cussed some more.

Wesker waited until the tantrum passed and then pulled him up by his arms.

Chris threw one over the leather shoulders. Weight pressed against the side of his enemy.

They moved slowly together, Icarus folding his wings back, making room for Prometheus to lean.

* * *

Afternoon.

They'd walked for what seemed like forever. Without asking, he knew they were headed for the river.

Chris sucked in a ragged breath when Wesker's supporting hand brushed the wound.

"I'm sorry," the blond muttered quickly. Another human reflex.

It fell from his lips, effortless, but went over like a lead balloon. Wesker coughed uncomfortably. He tried to cover it. But there was no covering _that_ little gem up. Chris heard it clearly and it ricocheted around his skull, echoing.

"You smell disgusting."

Chris laughed. "Good save."

They paused only when Chris needed to drink.

* * *

Evening.

Chris rested in the water. It bubbled over him. A gentle current. Eased the soreness, stripped away the dirt and blood and death. His clothes lay on the edge of the river, drying.

Wesker sat on the bank, wading into the water only to threaten an alligator who was drawn to the smell of the wound. Most of the thirsty, hungry animals settled down stream. Watchful eyes on the one in black.

The men were quiet.

* * *

Night.

They camped there.

"You don't sleep."

"No."

"Are you tired?"

Wesker studied him over the fire.

"Yes, Chris."

* * *

He was back from Africa only three weeks before the rushed pinning ceremony. He declined to give an acceptance speech. Without much fanfare, they presented him with a Purple Heart and few other medals, congratulated him on his early retirement (36 years old), and gave him a proverbial pat on the head.

_They just want you to go away, Chris. Under the rug with the rest of their dirty secrets…_

He willed the wound quiet.

It was a small gathering. A few generals, twenty-some higher-ups, their spouses. Chris was the only soldier – the only grunt. Another, larger party shared the banquet with them.

It was stuffy and formal and the tie he was wearing was too tight. He knew none of these people. It made him sweat. He wasn't good around strangers anymore.

He looked at his watch. Jill's flight had been delayed out of Philadelphia (visiting her parents) and she hadn't been able to make it to the dinner. She would be by the suite later though. Before Africa, it had been an occasional fuck between friends. Now, it was regular. Moving in the direction of commitment, he assumed. He considered whether he loved _Jill _or whether he loved the idea of her stability. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

_Maybe not at all_. His hand went to his side discreetly, trying to muffle the voice no one else heard.

As the prime rib was placed in front of him, he smiled uncomfortably. All around him, they laughed and joked. Comrades. Friends. But Chris was alone.

He raised the fork and knife to cut the meat but the drunken man next to him caught his elbow.

"Chris! I want you to meet someone. This is Ares Wahr. He was just hired on under the uh… which department?" General Bradford trailed off, already forgetting the man's placement.

"Chemical Facility Anti-Terrorism Department. CVI division."

Chris's blood ran cold. His muscles atrophied.

Albert Wesker extended a hand. "Mr. Redfield. It's a pleasure."

* * *

"It was a shock to see him there, I imagine," the psychologist said, writing something down.

Chris crossed his legs, ankle resting on knee. The doctor noted that he looked a less agitated this session. Perhaps later he could approach the subject of Jill joining in again.

"So you ended up sitting through a meal with him?"

"What else could I do?" Defensive.

"I'm not suggesting that anything could have been done differently. Tell me about it. What happened?"

* * *

The rest of the dinner, Chris heard nothing that was said. Hysterical deafness. He stared at his plate. He barely breathed.

All the while, he was watched through mirrored sunglasses. The blond would nod banally at a conversation here and there – well-practiced, hiding his apathy – and his finger traced the edge of his untouched tumbler. Over and over and over.

Between the entrée and dessert, Chris managed to excuse himself. Restroom (_desperate_ _escape_).

He stood, smiling congenially, napkin on plate, and exited the hotel ballroom. Once he pushed out of the double doors, he slumped against the wall, using a shoulder to stay upright. His legs were weak, his heart jumped irregularly.

"Jesus Christ, help me. Jesus Christ, please help me," he wheezed. He clutched his wounded side.

A maid passed by, pushing a cart. She stared at him, concerned.

"Mr. Redfield. You look unwell. Let me get you to the washroom." The blond was at his side then, grinning. Dimpled. Benign.

Chris pushed him away and straightened on his own.

The maid glanced back as they turned the corner and disappeared into the men's bathroom.

* * *

"Lower your voice, Christopher." A warning.

The stall was too small for the men. In it, they stood nose to nose. Sharing air.

"I let you go and this –" Chris's hand gestured wildly. "This is what you do? Homeland fucking Security?"

"Quiet down."

"Are you serious? Are you fucking _serious_?" His hands were in his own hair. Tearing. "This is it, Wesker. This is the end." He went to open the door.

There was a sudden rush of breath from his lungs as his back hit the metal divider. A graceful pale hand squeezed his throat shut. Inhumanly strong.

"And what will you tell them, Chris? Hmm? "Arrest this man – he almost annihilated the human race but he saved my life in Africa so I let him walk away"? Is that what you'll tell _them_?"

Laughter. Sharp white teeth.

Chris pried at the hand. It only tightened.

"Listen to me." He shook the younger man roughly._ "Listen. To. Me."_

Chris stared into black lenses. His face was red and the wound throbbed.

"You will compose yourself and go back to your party. And you will _enjoy_ it. I will retire at nine-thirty. You will follow at ten. Give me your card key."

* * *

He loosened the tie. His hand was weary as it touched the door knob.

It opened itself.

A lamp on the breakfast table illuminated the room. Wesker sat there, looking decidedly mild.

Chris worked out the knot and pulled the necktie off, laying it on the back of another chair. He shut the door with his foot and locked it.

"You're here to finish me off, huh?"

Wesker removed the sunglasses slowly. "Don't be so dramatic, Chris."

"What do you want then?" He untucked the dress shirt, briefly exposing the wound. Blood had seeped through the gauze. Wesker stared and sniffed the air. _Once._

It was a threatening gesture. Chris shivered.

There was a knock at the door.

"Chris?" A woman's voice.

_Jill._

He looked at Wesker then, his eyes pleading.

_Mercy_.

* * *

Wesker couldn't see much through the slats of the closets louver door. He didn't really need to though. His other senses were heightened.

He could smell her. She was in heat. He clenched his teeth. Intoxicated by the promise. Lusting.

_Restraint._

"Did Jay get the job?"

"Yeah. He starts Tuesday. He's excited," she replied.

She was on the bed. Picking at her nails. Chris was brushing his teeth. The sink ran.

Chris returned to her. She began to take off her clothes.

He was horrified. He had to stop her. Wesker was here. How could he stop her?

_You should ask her what you've been wondering,_ the wound reminded him.

"Jill?"

"Yeah?" Unzipping. Looking up from under long lashes. Wet lips.

"When you were with him. Did anything happen?"

She sat up straight. "What do you mean?"

Chris pushed. "You know what I mean."

She looked shocked and then her face grew tight. "_What_?"

_Guilty!_ _She's guilty!_ Chris's mind couldn't decide if it was the wound or the real Wesker talking. He shook his head, trying to clear it. It only made him angrier. "You fucked him, didn't you?"

It came out before he could stop it.

She gasped.

"You fucked him and you were in _there_ the whole time." He pointed to her head. "Like when you attacked me and you blamed it on that _thing_."

_Tell her. Tell her what you've been thinking. Tell her that every time you're in her you think of him inside of her, on her. You know it's true, Chris. Make her confess…_

Tears acted as her reply. She put everything back on, hands shaking.

He wasn't done. He grabbed her wrist as she turned to leave.

A slap stung his face.

At the door, she touched her hand to her chest. "How could you… _you_… of all people, Chris."

Heavy tears slid down her cheeks. A sob.

And then she was gone.


	6. Chapter 6

Jill cried all the way home – a half hour drive that lasted for days. She wiped furiously at her tears.

_Heart, we will forget him!_

She cried because he had been right about her after all.

* * *

Chris stood amazingly still, staring at the door. Wesker made no move to come out of hiding. Chris could _hear _him smirking.

The wound, strangely, had nothing to say.

Without looking back, he left the room, shutting off the light.

* * *

Around one, Chris returned from the hotel bar. With a girl.

It was not Jill. Younger, softer than Jill.

They stumbled into the darkness of the room. Wet mouths meeting eagerly, sloppily. The scrape of teeth on teeth. They laughed at their clumsiness. A chair was jarred, bumped. More giggling.

Wesker adjusted the dimmer and the lights in the suite drew up. He found she was twenty years old at best.

He loomed ominously in the doorway – Kharon of the Boudoir Styx.

There was a moment of confusion for the girl. But Chris's lips were so hot on her ear.

Her resistance was weak.

The blond was very handsome. Dark Horse. Dangerous.

Chris worked his way down her throat.

Who was she to resist a dimple?

* * *

_You and I, tonight!_

* * *

She pulled Chris's undershirt over his head. Wesker stalked around the bed, feral. The leather duster crumpled to the floor and he joined them. She reached for the sunglasses. _Take these off_. He caught her hand, bringing it to his cold lips, distracting. _No_. He sucked hard on her fingers as Chris found a taut little nipple. She nearly purred and left the glasses.

* * *

The blond's mouth was evil and chilly. Chris held her legs, opening her to the other man. She listened to her own obscene sounds in the dark – the moist lapping of a patient tongue, two slickened and skillful fingers curling, scratching that spot just inside. Chris's excitement was hard on her back.

She shattered when the blond added a third.

Wesker's free hand ran up the other man's thigh, mouth still working the girl. Eating loudly.

Chris's erection ached appreciatively.

* * *

_You may forget the warmth he gave_

* * *

She was on top of Chris. His back arched up to meet her thrusts. Hard, wet sounds. Heavy breaths, timely moans. He pulled her down to his mouth, his tongue crushing hers. Her nails dug into his shoulders.

Both she and Chris stopped moving when Wesker's hand traced the length of her spine, petting. His arousal pushed at her. Pushed at Chris. Finally, pushed in _with_ Chris. Just the head.

All three sighed. She was unsure and ended the kiss, breath held again.

The Old Chris looked in her eyes. "You'll be okay… Just let him finish…" His thumb rubbed her bottom lip.

Wesker rocked, his arousal sawing against Chris's. _Inside._ Each tilt of his hips gained him more entry. She was warm and stretched for him, for both of them.

The New Chris was pinned under their weight but did not mind captivity.

* * *

_I will forget the light._

* * *

The fucking was slow and even, as only the blond man was moving. Chris enjoyed the friction of sharing a hole. The girl grew to enjoy it as well. Her mouth sucked greedily at Chris's throat, thighs tensing and relaxing over his hips. Wesker's hands kept the girl flat on Chris's chest, his long fingers splaying, digging into the cheeks of her ass. _Perfection_. They sweat together - rubbing, licking, hissing.

_Living_. _Dying_.

Gentle thrusts, feeling more of Chris than the girl. Wesker rasped. _More_. He hunched over the girl, pumping, and buried his face in the curve of Chris's neck.

"Only I know what you need…"

Chris's eyes closed.

* * *

Wesker pulled out. Leaned back on slender heels. "Leave."

She sat up, still impaled on Chris. Doe-like eyes.

"Leave."

And as she tried to find her clothes, ashamed, he slithered between the spread thighs of the other man.

* * *

Chris was incapable of thinking.

He did not look when Wesker took off the sunglasses.

He did not flinch when Wesker gripped him, hard, testing.

He did not watch when Wesker took him in his mouth.

He wept openly between begging for more.

Secret prayers for death.

* * *

A scentless, spit-covered fist was around Chris, commanding and pulling. Wesker finished him with short, hard jerks. Then he used what Chris had given up. On himself.

One-handed – curiously, the left. Flicking a thumb over the slit on each up stroke, using the bleachy cum of the other man to lubricate his efforts. Speed increasing, breathing ragged.

Chris knew what he wanted when Wesker's other hand cradled his head. Wesker didn't force him though and perhaps that's why Chris allowed his lips to part.

Silently, he knelt beside him and came in Chris Redfield's willing mouth.

Wesker's climax tasted of nothing. But Chris's tongue stung as the sharp hooks dragged across it. He deserved the punishment so he sucked harder, deeper, swallowing it all. Wesker smiled above him, at him.

Sharp white teeth. _All the better to eat you with_.

When he finally pulled away, Chris's mouth was sore and bleeding from the barbs._ Genetically modified? Viral side-effect?_ The New Chris didn't care. The pain was delicious and screamed over the angry gash.

Wesker kissed him deeply. Chris gave up.

There was nothing about the blond that didn't mortally wound.

* * *

Chris slept heavily on his good side. As he watched the rise and fall of the chest beside him, Wesker felt a curious sensation. His eye lids were… closing on their own. He fought the feeling for several minutes and fell asleep for the first time in nearly fifteen years.

_Dreamless._

The slumber of gods.

* * *

When he woke the next morning, Chris was gone. He rolled over to the other side of the bed and ground his erection against the sheets, toes curling, smelling the night before.

* * *

_When you have done, pray tell me_

_Then I, my thoughts, may dim;_

_Haste! Lest while you're lagging,_

_I may remember him!_

* * *

Chris sat in the car. The air was on full-blast despite it being comfortable outside. He stared at the office, thinking.

The therapy had woken up his wound, which talked incessantly now. Just like Wesker.

_That cretin only wants your money. He laughs at you, Chris. He can't help you. No one can._

Chris shook his head. It had become a tick, triggered by the voice.

* * *

He decided not to go in and instead drove through McDonald's, read some Steinbeck in the parking lot and went home. It would have been his fifth session.

* * *

"How was it today?"

He smiled at Jill. The Old Chris smile. "Excellent."

They kissed.

The New Chris was a great deceiver.

Just like Wesker.

* * *

Dusk.

It had been nearly a week.

Chris should have been dead.

He wasn't.

Wesker was failing though. Weakening as Chris grew stronger by the hour. He could stand on his own now, move short distances without help.

Not understanding why, Chris became worried. The anxiety bothered him.

He should be _wishing_ death upon Wesker.

But he found himself praying for his life.

The parasite praying for its host. Or maybe the host praying for its parasite.

Wesker was very still under the shade of the strangle fig tree.

* * *

_Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,_

_And sorry I could not travel both_

_And be one traveler, long I stood_

_And looked down one as far as I could_

_To where it bent in the undergrowth_

* * *

Night.

"Chris."

His voice cut through the dreamscape.

"Chris." A boot nudged him in the back. Almost considerately. Had it not been a boot.

"What?"

"They're coming."

Chris opened his eyes. The fire was dying down in the late hour.

In the distance, the flood light of a helicopter was surveying the ground. Scanning.

They were coming for him.

He pushed himself up and breathed deeply. The wound ached, but he didn't notice.

Wesker stood behind him, arms crossed.

They watched the search team.

"What will you do now, Prometheus?" Wesker asked quietly, mirroring the question Chris had asked a week before. "Tell them about me so they can hunt me down from the air and shoot me like an animal?"

Chris turned to him. "Run."

Wesker raised his eyebrows. "Excuse me?"

"Go! Before they get here. Fucking go!"

For once, Wesker looked confused.

"Go, Goddamn you!" He threw the canteen at the man in black, who was already backing into the shadows.

* * *

_Then took the other, as just as fair,_

_And having perhaps the better claim,_

_Because it was grassy and wanted wear;_

_Though as for that passing there_

_Had worn them really about the same_

* * *

Dawn.

They arrived. The B.S.A.A.

Jill was among them. She cried. Tears of unrepentant joy.

"You're sure no one else is alive out there?" General Bradford asked as medics worked on the wound. The military man searched the horizon, his hand shading his eyes. All around them - men in uniform, dogs, guns, vehicles... Empty body bags.

Chris paused. "No one."

Jill looked at him, a question unspoken. It passed between them needing no words.

"Not even _him_," Chris reassured her. And the gloved hands cleaned his side carelessly, ignoring his pain.

So very unlike Icarus.

* * *

_And both that morning equally lay_

_In leaves no step had trodden black._

_Oh, I kept the first for another day!_

_Yet knowing how way leads on to way,_

_I doubted if I should ever come back._

* * *

Jill looked at her cell phone. A number she didn't recognize. But local. She picked up.

"Hello?"

"Ms. Redfield?"

"Yes?"

"This is Dr. Bill Alexander. I hate to bother you but was just checking on Chris."

"Oh." She was surprised. "Uh, why?"

"He hasn't been to the past three appointments. He didn't call. I was concerned. He had one scheduled today for eleven."

* * *

Jill set the phone down. Eve was cooing in the baby swing.

Her mother sat on the couch, held her head in her hands, and sniffled.

* * *

"How's that one client of yours? Mr. African S&M Dolph Lundgren Secret Government Ops?"

Bill shrugged but didn't smile at the joke. "He stopped coming."

The food court at the vet hospital was crowded. The two med school friends were people-watching and standing in the unreasonably long line at the Starbucks kiosk.

"That's scary."

"You have no idea."

"Did you refer him at least? Get him on some kind of stabilizer?"

Bill shook his head.

"Alright. Well, I'll just keep that to myself if something happens."

They didn't talk about it anymore.

* * *

A week after the hotel incident, Chris found himself back at headquarters, unannounced.

"General Bradford, Chris Redfield is here to see you. He says it's urgent."

The secretary looked Chris over and continued to type. Her acrylic nails were obnoxiously loud on the keys.

_Ugh…_ The wound really hated the sound. Chris held his side, wincing.

The door opened and the rotund man smiled, motioned to him. "Chris! How are you? Come in."

* * *

Bradford dribbled on about nothing. Chris and the wound waited patiently for him to shut his mouth.

"So what was it you needed to see me about?"

"Ares Wahr, sir. There's something I need to tell you about him. He's-"

"Ares… Wahr…," the General mumbled, trying to recall. "Oh! He left a message for you actually."

Shock.

"I'm sorry?"

"He quit. Can you believe it? Already. Just landed that job too. A shame. He was good, that guy. Sharp as a tack."

Chris was silent.

The wound laughed, mocking.

"He asked me to say good-bye to you. He must have been really impressed at the pinning."

Chris stared at the messy desk, trying to force the vomit down before he spoke. "Did he say where he was going?"

"I think he mentioned that he was picked up by a pharmaceutical company… Not a big name though. Anyway, he's back in research and development, I guess."

That would be the last time Chris spoke aloud of Albert Wesker/Ares Wahr for a year.

"What did you want to tell me about him?"

The New Chris looked up, icy blue eyes. Unreadable. "Nothing. Nothing at all."

* * *

_Your third missed appointment… I'm floored. Impressed even. You _**_used_**_ to do the right thing. Now you're going to go in there and lie to her again. You're really something else, Prometheus._

Chris pulled in the drive and shoved the book under the seat. He'd read Hemingway at McDonald's today.

Humming, he pocketed the keys and hopped up the front steps. He stopped halfway there.

"Hey, babe."

Jill was standing on the top stoop, the baby on her hip.

There was a duffle bag at her feet.

She kicked it down to him, forcefully.

And slammed the door behind her.

* * *

_I shall be telling this with a sigh_

_Somewhere ages and ages hence:_

_Two roads diverged in a wood, and I –_

_I took the one less traveled by,_

_And that has made all the difference._


	7. Chapter 7

_4:32 AM._

Chris woke, startled into wakefulness by a dream of falling. Wesker lay undisturbed next to him.

He was a stomach sleeper. And he breathed so shallowly, he might not have breathed at all. White-blond hair like a bent halo. Legs tangled in expensive sheets. Heavy-limbed, balletic.

Chris's head ached. Images flooded back to him - a girl... then just the two of them... then the shameful pain in his mouth.

_Escape._

Chris watched Wesker's sleeping form fearfully as he pulled his shirt on, then his pants, then the sleeves of the dress shirt. He left it unbuttoned. He did not bother with shoes.

Keys. Cell phone. Wallet.

An overnight bag, open on the bathroom counter, spilling contents. Left behind.

The hotel door closed quietly.

Wesker did not hear it.

He slept like the dead.

* * *

_10:12 AM._

Google.

"Barbed Penis"

Certain animals had them.

Stimulates ovulation. Painful intercourse.

His tongue was still swollen - hours later. Gruesome reminder.

Chris found he couldn't eat anything for the rest of the day because the nausea was overwhelming.

* * *

It had been a month since she'd kicked him out.

Chris had an efficiency. He did not leave unless he was starving.

The wound-scar stopped talking. And he was very lonely.

Jill had not called. She was strong.

He was not strong and had called 29 times. In one day.

He did not miss the baby. The baby did not miss him either, he was sure.

The baby had wicked blue eyes. She stared at him with such detachment, such indifference. She was the most aloof infant that ever existed. She terrified him.

He did miss Jill though.

He would go back. To the therapy, to his life, to _her_.

He would tell her everything.

Except the most sacred part. That was his and his alone.

* * *

It was hard.

Chris had had little to do with the baby, but he'd picked up the slack elsewhere.

Jill felt the loss. Deeply.

Especially today. She seemed to drop everything she touched. She tripped over the rug in the kitchen – twice. Her coffee tasted burnt and she'd run out of laundry detergent (Chris used to write the grocery list. Chris never let anything run out).

As she washed the carafe, she set the wedding band on the edge of the sink. It fell to the wood floor with a melodic _ping_. She heard it roll away.

Cursing, she reached down to pick it up.

She touched a black shoe, the ring pinned under it.

Jill looked up and into black lenses.

* * *

In the nursery, he stood with his hands clasped behind his back.

A dark smudge against the pink.

He stared down on the baby.

She too, studied him objectively, her brain formed enough to register a different and interesting face. There was flicker of recognition then.

Nothing needed to be said about the baby's appearance. It was rather obvious who Eve belonged to.

Wesker turned to Jill.

"I would like to hold my child now."

* * *

That night, Jill's wedding ring lay on the bedside table next to the sunglasses.

His fingers on her body, hard enough to bruise. His mouth hunted hers, forced it, claimed it. He consumed her. And God help her, she let _him_ take her on the bed she shared with Chris.

They moved with purpose, she in his lap, her legs around his hips, arms around his neck.

She loved the familiar hurt when he came inside of her. She deserved it.

She loved that the baby didn't cry that night.

She loved him. _She loved him._

She deserved the agony.

* * *

Chris thumbed through the poetry book. He really didn't care for it. He read one over and over though.

_O Rose thou art sick.  
The invisible worm.  
That flies in the night  
In the howling storm:_

_Has found out thy bed_  
_Of crimson joy:_  
_And his dark secret love_  
_Does thy life destroy._

Tomorrow. He would go back to her tomorrow and beg for his life.

* * *

**Tyger! Tyger! burning bright,  
In the forests of the night,  
What immortal hand or eye  
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?**

* * *

Her heart was pounding.

The three figures were at a crossroads.

Chris had a gun.

It was pointed at Jill's head.

* * *

The baby was silent in his arms. He had pulled off a glove to touch her face. Strange pale hands. Alien.

His nostrils flared, and he held her closer to his face, smelling her. He could only smell himself. _Relief_.

The hard years faded from him then. He did not smile, would not smile, but he regarded the child with a certain reverence.

_She_ was his only.

Jill watched him closely.

She was not nervous as she was when Chris held the baby.

This felt very different.

He looked at Jill.

The last vestige of humanity in him wished that he could have seen her, heavy with his child.

* * *

**In what distant deeps or skies  
Burnt the fire in thine eyes?  
On what wings dare he aspire?  
What the hand dare seize the fire?**

* * *

In depth of their history, there were only three exchanges of the word _please_. On two occasions, it was Chris who said it. On the last occasion, it was Albert Wesker.

* * *

Wesker. Wesker had frightened the hyenas. They scattered.

He lay defenseless and infantile at the feet of his enemy - the metal throbbing in his side, the life literally draining from him.

"Have you nothing to live for? Hmm?" Wesker snarled. "Fight!"

Chris looked up. "Kill me."

The shock of laughter. Sharp white teeth. "I will not."

Chris was cold. Cold as the earth. "_Please_."

His answer was the sucking pull of metal, ripped from his side. And then hands, staunching the flow. As he fell into unconsciousness, Wesker spoke to him.

Hidden in the words were secret prayers of life.

* * *

**And what shoulder, and what art?  
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?  
And when thy heart began to beat,  
What dread hand, and what dread feet?**

* * *

The rustle of sheets and the soft dark sound of pleasure.

The god between his legs used its hellish mouth on him. He felt chained to the bed as if it were the rock, and Wesker the vulture – returning day after day to torment him.

The wound throbbed and wept as Wesker's tongue dipped between the staples where the flesh bloomed raw, tasting him. His saliva stung the wound but the hand on Chris kept him still.

Quick, powerful jerks. Fingers wet and slippery. Lips, tongue and teeth devouring him as they devoured the girl only an hour before.

Chris writhed. "Kill me."

The tongue responded by delving deeper into him. Chris moaned. The hand continued its torture. He was pushed closer and closer to the edge of abyss.

"_Please_."

* * *

**What the hammer? What the chain?  
In what furnace was thy brain?  
What the anvil? What dread grasp  
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?**

* * *

Jill answered the door.

Chris, hands in pockets. "Hey."

A pause. "This is a bad time, Chris."

"I tried to call."

"I know." Jill moved to step outside with him – anything to shut the door, before he saw…

Chris stopped her. "Let me come in. Just for a minute."

_Panic._

"I can't. I can't right now, Chris. I can't go there with you. Not now."

She looked nervous. She was talking very quickly.

Suspicion. He backed her into the doorway. She almost stumbled.

"What's going on in there?" he demanded.

"Nothing! I just don't want to fucking do this with you!" Tears welling up.

He looked down the hallway.

He pushed past her, entering the house.

Something was off. His hand went to the gun that he kept tucked in his jeans. Jill saw the glint of metal, his finger curling on the trigger.

"Chris, don't. Stop. Chris."

He didn't hear her.

* * *

**When the stars threw down their spears,  
And watered heaven with their tears,  
Did he smile his work to see?  
Did he who made the Lamb, make thee?**

* * *

They met in the hallway upstairs, Wesker closing the nursery room door.

The gun was drawn and Chris's arms shook.

He searched for the words to say. There seemed to be none except, "Get the fuck out of my house."

Wesker smiled. "We've been through this, Chris. You can't hurt me with _that_." He referred to the weapon.

Unblinking, Chris continued to aim.

Jill was on the staircase. Neither man acknowledged her.

"You let him touch my daughter?" Chris finally asked, the words choked out.

"_Your_ daughter?" The smile growing.

Chris looked bewildered. The gun wavered before returning to its target.

"What… what does he mean, Jill?" His eyes began to water. He knew the answer.

Behind Chris, she dropped to her knees, hands over her face.

"What does he mean?"

Tears falling to the floor.

He recalled nights with Jill then, when she would bleed after sex or complain of an ache deep inside or screw her eyes shut when she came, trying to block _him_ out... trying to pretend his touch was the touch of his enemy. The wound laughed. Or was it Wesker?

Chris continued to hold, but reached down with one hand to ease the wound-scar, which began to double him over with excruciating pain. Wesker took a step toward him. Menacing.

"You took everything from me. It's never enough," Chris said suddenly.

Wesker cocked his head, the sunglasses reflecting the anguish back on Chris.

"Here." Chris rifled through his back pocket and threw his wallet. "Take this too. Take everything that's in it. You want my house? Take that. Take the car. And _her_ – you can have her." He pointed the gun at Jill, arm shaking.

He watched for a reaction to the threat of her life.

Wesker did nothing. Did not even flinch. Jill sobbed.

"Chris, please…," she begged.

"This doesn't bother you? I can take this?" The New Chris asked maniacally, cocking the gun. "She's just your whore? My wife is just your whore?"

Wesker just smiled. Dimpled. Sharp white teeth.

Slowly, Chris brought the gun to his own head. "What about this?"

The smile dropped. Deep inhalation. Jill cried out.

"Oh. You don't want me to take _this_."

The men stared at each other. "You wouldn't dare…" Whispered through clenched teeth.

The Old Chris closed his eyes and said, "I'm sorry, Jill."

* * *

**Tyger! Tyger! burning bright,  
In the forests of the night,  
What immortal hand or eye  
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?**

* * *

Icarus fell from the sky, tumbled down to earth.

Over the body, Wesker prayed. He pulled Chris into his arms. Such fragile blood and flesh and bone. Sunglasses dropped, he buried his face in the dead man's chest and listened to the quiet heart.

_"Please. Please."_

* * *

The baby did not cry in its crib.

* * *

Bill did not attend Chris Redfield's funeral. He could not bring himself to. Poor substitution as it was, he visited the vet's grave a few weeks after the service, in Arlington, to pay his respect.

With his foot, he brushed some leaves from the flat stone.

"_Christopher Redfield. Husband, Father, Soldier. 1973-2009."_

He sighed.

"You knew him?"

Bill whipped around at the voice. "Briefly. Too briefly."

The man nodded. Mysterious sunglasses, despite the overcast fall sky.

They looked down on the grave, letting minutes slide away.

Finally, the stranger said, "He was a good man, Prometheus Redfield."

Bill watched him silently walk off, the frosty grass crunching beneath his black boots, the leather duster blowing out behind him on a gust of wind.


End file.
